To keep his errors down to a minimum, the internal Censor to whom a poet submits his work in progress should be a Censorate. It should include, for instance, a sensitive only child, a practical housewife, a logician, a monk, an irreverent buffoon and even, perhaps, hated by all the others and returning their dislike, a brutal, foul-mouthed drill sergeant who considers all poetry rubbish. — W. H. Auden (from “Writing” in The Dyer’s Hand) via my friend David Michael’s commonplace book.

DON’T WRITE FOR SENSE, WRITE FOR SOUND. EXPOUND THE UNIVERSE’S MEANING NOT IN SYLLOGISM BUT IN SYLLABISM. POLYPHONY, NOT PHILOSOPHY. DOWN WITH DEEP THOUGHT! BRING ON THE ACROBATIC ALPHABET, RINGLEADERS OF RHYME, A CHORUS OF CACOPHONOUS PUNS! THE PHILOSOPHER KNOWS IT, BUT IT’S THE POET WHO SHOWS IT. DON’T BLOW IT (THE TRUMPET OF EGO). BASH CYMBALS–THE SYMBOLS WILL SHIVER…